


Her (All Five Horizons Revolved Around)

by Trixen



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 05:52:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8520913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trixen/pseuds/Trixen
Summary: Sam's in a mood. Set at the 2016 Scottish BAFTAs.





	

_I know someday you'll have a beautiful life,  
_ _I know you'll be a star in somebody else's sky,  
_ _But why, why, why can't it be, can't it be mine?_

 - Pearl Jam

 

It was funny in a mad sort of way, or so Sam thought.

 

The red carpet was ostensibly the most nerve-wracking bit of the night. Getting out of the car, facing those sweltering crowds, suit tight and absurd new hair-cut, his mouth dry from saying too much and too little. Glittering cameras, throngs of people with hungry eyes, selfies and autographs and his ink-stained hand cramping from writing the same things over and over. Glancing behind to make sure--

 

she's there.

 

She's safe.

 

A flick of his eyes is all he allows. Handling phones greasy from strangers' fingers and smiling big and grateful and of course he _is_ but he's also distracted because he can't stop himself from checking. He hadn't seen her the day previous, and they hadn't arrived together and so he snatches glimpses where he can. 

 

Swan neck, white against the night. 

 

Her hair, tightly knotted at her nape. He dislikes it that way, and he remembers that he'd told her so once, in a moment of stupidity because you do not tell girls that you don't fancy things about them. But she hadn't seemed to mind much. Called him a git and punched his arm with her skinny fist. A bruise had formed there the next day, soft and purplish, like a little heart underneath his skin.

 

She's always been stronger than she looks. 

 

Her dress is black and her lips are open. She's chatting to people, so self assured and self contained and so goddamn composed and he is trembling, trying not to show it, trying to focus, _focus_.

 

And it's funny now, that he thought that would be the hard bit.

 

It wasn't, really. There had even been a brief moment when he'd forgotten where they were. They were waiting to walk in front of the press scrum, and she reached up and tucked his hair behind his ear. His thumb pressed into the indent of her lower back, where it met her hip in the most delicate of curves. His hand was so big over her ribs and he could feel every inch of her, the bones and flesh and secret places. She smelled of cold cream and sandalwood and her breath was white wine and lipstick and sweet mint.

 

"Think it needs fixing, do ye," he'd murmured to her, barely moving his lips.

 

She'd smiled. "Who did this to you?"

 

He grumbled. "Balfe."

 

"You look very dashing."

 

"Shut it."

 

Cait laughed, full-belly and it made his own stomach hurt in such a strange way. There they were together, alone but for a hundred cameras, and she was leaning into him, in this moment of imagined privacy, and what was he supposed to do? What _could_ he do? So he just let her fix the fault she found, and he picked a hair away that had gotten snagged on her glossy mouth and they walked out in front of those cameras, stilted at first but once they got to talking, they were giggling and acting foolish like always and he could forget, he could _pretend_ \--

 

it was so fucking sweet, pretending.

 

At the table, it's just shite, and he doesn't mind saying so. Of course he _doesn't_ because he has a date with him and so does she, and their bosses are there and he has to keep it together enough to make small talk. He drinks a tad much right off the bat, and Mac is a sweet girl and so excited to be there but fuck if he just feels like he's using her, and for what? To make someone jealous that couldn't give a fuck? To prove to a nameless, faceless audience that he doesn't care?

 

That he's having the time of his goddamn life?

 

He expects to win. He can't help it. He has a speech stuck in his pocket, thanking the usual suspects. He'd struggled with what to say about Caitriona, but settled for the obvious. _I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you, Sassenach._ So when they don't call his name, he experiences a moment out-of-body, where it's as if he's going to walk up on stage and just accept anyway, because the words are spilling over his tongue and he's horrified, thinking he's going to say them out loud, in front of everyone.

 

But thank Christ he gets a hold of himself, and shrugs and bites his bottom lip with all of his might when Cait touches his hand beneath the table. 

 

Her fingers are cold - _cold hands, warm heart_ she likes to say - and she doesn't squeeze so much as soothe, her thumb running along his knuckles in a sweeping motion, as if to whisper _it's okay, I'm here -_ but she isn't, not really, and he can't help but yank his hand away eventually, pretending his forehead itches. If Mac or Tony see the touch beneath the cloth, they don't give any sign, and he wonders -- did it even happen and does it even matter?

 

After all, her--- fucking  _boyfriend_ clearly doesn't see him as a threat and he can't think that without feeling sick. 

 

Sick with guilt and with anger at her, and at him, and most of all at himself because why can't he just get the fuck over this?

 

The moment comes as he knew it would - Bill says "Caitriona Balfe" and he feels her start in surprise beside him, the heat of her like a firework. She smiles briefly, hugging him, kissing Tony on both cheeks, avoiding all of their eyes and heading for the stage like it's a catwalk.

 

As she speaks, he hears her voice shaking almost imperceptibly but he _hears_ it and for some reason, he feels even more furious, at the fact that he lost, at the fact that he felt the need to show off tonight, to send some sort of arsey message, at the fact that all he wants to do now is go back to his hotel room, drink heavily and throw something heavy (perhaps her BAFTA) at the wall (or a certain someone's head).

 

Worse, he knows that his face is frozen in an expression that could earn him a place on _The Walking Dead_ but worse still, he can't stop. As she thanks him, he forces himself to clap, to bow his head, to meet Tony's eyes with a jokey "yeah, bro, she did well" expression even though it makes his balls literally curl up inside of his body in protest.

 

Through every sip of Scottish whisky and every lame joke and every speech that goes on for ages, his lips thin more and more. By the time the after party starts, he's pretty well into his cups. Thank Christ.

 

The music is loud, the tables in the centre are cleared and Ron is dancing in a manner reminiscent of Elaine on _Seinfeld_ as Mac heads to the loo to check her make-up. Sam accepts the congratulations (re: condolences) from passerby, steadily sipping his way through his fourth drink of whisky. 

 

"Slow down, mate," Cait says jokingly, dropping back onto her seat. Her cheeks are flushed pink. 

 

He shrugs. "Nah."

 

"Stroppy," she says, appraising him for a moment and pouring herself some wine from the bottle on the table. "Where's your lovely date?"

 

"Ladies," he returns shortly. "Yours?"

 

"Probably the same," she says, sitting back and looking contented. "What a night, I'll well chuffed. Didn't think it would happen." She clinks their glasses together.  She whispers, "And fuck Henshall, huh?"

 

"He deserved it," Sam says and rests his elbows on the table. "Look I might--"

 

"Are you that disappointed?" she asks and he can feel her staring at him. "Next year it'll--"

 

" _Fuck,_  Cait," he bites out and ignores the look of surprise that flickers across her face. Has to ignore it. "Just leave it, will you?"

 

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you?"

 

Sam looks at her then. At the hairstyle he despises. At her dress that does nothing for her. And he feels a certain rage building in his belly, irrepressible - that he _still_ wants her so much he can barely think or feel anything else. The desire is the only thing inside of him, like a skyscraper, and his throat is thick and hot. 

 

Because it isn't her looks or her body or whatever fuck else, it's just _her_ and he never expected this or wanted it or invited it in. 

 

But.

 

How can you, after all, have someone be your second skin for years and then send them home to someone else?

 

How can you know every taste of their mouth and every itch they need scratched and every sneeze that demands a tissue and every lunchtime craving and every eyebrow raise that means _coffee before I kill someone_ and every book they want to read and every knotty place in their shoulders ---- those thousands and thousands of little details, little constructions. How can you know those and still wave goodbye at the end of every day?

 

How can you accept that they cart another person along as their 'number two' and you have to just grin and bear it, because fuck knows, they don't want you back, and you don't want to be the shithead who can't take no for an answer.

 

Except you've never asked.

 

Ever.

 

Cait is still waiting, her eyes wide and searching. It's almost worse that she seems concerned rather than pissed off.

 

"Just ignore me," he chuckles and shakes his head. "Go dance with your bloke."

 

"I don't want to ignore you," she says quietly. 

 

"Well ye might have to, Balfe."

 

"Okay now you're just being--"

 

"Hi!"

 

Sam closes his eyes at the sound of Mac's voice. She says everything with an exclamation point. "Fancy a dance?"

 

"Always!" 

 

He avoids Cait's gaze because it feels determined and when she gets a bee in her bonnet, nothing much stops her. He takes Mac's hand and tugs her along until they're across the room. Away from Ron and everyone else. It reminds him of secondary school dances, and he feels awkward and like he’d rather be anywhere else. Perhaps drinking with his mates or grabbing a curry. Anything but shuffling with his arms around a girl he barely knows, who obviously has ulterior motives beyond just a friendly shag.

 

But of course, doesn't he? Isn't he being just as duplicitous? He doesn't blame her. He blames himself.

 

The band is playing obscure songs that he doesn't know and he takes a moment to listen, with Mackenzie in the circle of his arms, her cheek against his shoulder. 

 

_A chance for calm, a hope for freedom  
_ _Outlet from my cold solitary kingdom  
_ _By the forest of our spring stay  
_ _Where you walked away_

_And left a bleeding part of me  
_ _Empty and bothered, watching the water  
_ _Quiet in the corner, numb and falling through  
_ _Without you what does my life amount to?_

 

Something twists inside of him and he almost gasps with it. One thing he's never been prone to is melodrama or even drama, really. Enough of that at work. But he can't help it and he feels foolish and a bit silly and the back of his mouth stings with all of it, the unfairness and his own futile hopes.

 

When he looks up, his eyes meet Cait's. Goddammit. He wants to curse out loud. Like a metronome, she ticks in his periphery, a fixed point, a pulse, his heart, racing and shuddering. His _second skin_ , that he never asked for or even wanted. 

 

Once he'd found out she was dating some hipster (the sideburns especially rankled, though he wasn't sure what about them made him so bollocks crazy), he'd tried to stop her from coming into his dreams, his fantasies, incise her from his heart. But he knows more than anyone how traitorous hearts can be.

 

Not to mention his dick, which doesn't give a fuck about his intentions. 

 

They are dancing. Cait and Tony. Quite close to him and Mac, and her eyes. They are blazing. _Caitriona_ , he wants to say. _Caitriona, don't push this._ Her face is against Tony's head - they are about the same height and she might be a bit taller, which makes Sam smirk despite himself - and she's watching him and Mac with a quizzical look on her face. Almost as if the picture doesn't look quite right and needs adjusting.

 

He shrugs his shoulders at her and dips his chin. Their secret language. Basically, _What, Balfe?_

Her eyes widen. _We hadn't finished._

His widen more _. So what?_

Her nostrils flare _. I'm getting mighty pissed off with you._

Sam deliberately turns away, spinning Mac a bit so that he doesn't have to look at Caitriona. Because what good does it do? Their secret language, their secret smiles, the way she called him her partner, for _fuck's_ sake... it's all a lie. How can he be any sort of partner if someone else is making her come and buying her dinners out and rubbing her feet in front of the fire? He can't. And he won't do this any longer.

 

"May I cut in?"

 

She says it sweet as sugar, but even he hears the bite behind it. Mackenzie obviously cottons on too. She almost darts away. "Of course! I'll talk to your boyfriend! He seems nice!"

 

"Perfect, thanks hon."

 

Sam winces at the 'hon' and winces even more when Caitriona places her hands on his shoulders and begins to sway. He does the same. It's not unlike American films, when they have proms, and teenagers are quite awkward with each other. His face feels hot and he doesn't want to look at her, but she's persistent, his girl, so he finally does.

 

"Ye don't know when to quit."

 

"Too right," she nods curtly. "Never have. So what's up your bum? Do I have to beat it out of you?"

 

"Just disappointed. Thought I'd win, which was a wee bit silly."

 

"Not buying it."

 

"Cait--"

 

Her hand drifts up and she touches his cheek, where stubble is already beginning to grow in. Sam jerks away, out of her arms and away from her fingers, away from the smell of her. Away from her mouth and the soft give of her body and the dips of her collarbones.

 

Away from the only woman he can say he properly _loves_. Has ever loved, really, when it comes down to it.

 

Sam heads for the back of the room. It seems acres long and is packed to the brim with rowdy Scots. He avoids back slaps and offers of drinks, ferreting out a door that the caterers and servers keep darting in and out of. It leads one way to the kitchens, and he heads in the opposite direction, past staff loos and mucky drinking fountains, past a few hushed and empty conference rooms, until he turns a corner and finds an office. The door is ajar, and he steals inside, flicking on an ancient desk lamp and collapsing onto the chair. It squeaks a bit and rolls backward, the wheels wobbling.

 

He's breathing hard and he can feel sweat on his collar.

 

The room is dim and barely lit, but there is a thin layer of dust on the surface, as if it hasn't been disturbed in weeks. He coughs a bit and retrieves the flask from his pocket. The whisky is smooth and rich and tastes faintly of toffee.

 

"Mind if I have a sip?"

 

Sam jerks his head up and the chair rocks precariously. "Fuck, Balfe, how'd ye sneak up on me like that? You're like a ninja."

 

"Took off my heels," she says, dropping them from her fingers onto the desk. 

 

She takes a step forward and the glow of the lamp catches the shimmer of her hair, the way she’s chewed off her lipstick, the wrinkles in her dress. His heart squeezes painfully at how goddamn gorgeous she looks. Like something out of the fairy tales his mum read him as a kid. Right now, less of a princess and more of a witch, but still. She puts her palms on her hips and regards him seriously.

 

"Give it up, Heughan. I'm getting worried you might be pregnant or something."

 

Sam chuckles. He can't help it. They've always made each other laugh. Since the first time she exploded into uncontrollable giggles, he's made it his mission to see and hear that as much as possible. There's something so _perfect_ about the way she laughs. Something so perfect about the way _he_ makes her laugh.

 

"So? What happened? Worried you might have to actually talk to your date?"

 

His eyes narrow. "I'll pretend ye didn't say that."

 

Cait smiles. "I was just teasing."

 

"No ye weren't."

 

It's her turn to be irritated. "Just looking out for the poor girl. You've barely said two words to her all night."

 

"If ye remember, I was _trying_ to dance with her when _you_ barged in."

 

"I rarely barge." She snatches the flask and takes a healthy swig. "I glide. I sneak. I insinuate."

 

He refuses to smile, watching as she sits down on the desk awkwardly, the dress bunching around her ankles and knees. She shimmies a bit, getting situated. The air is almost supernaturally still, given the party going on a few corridors away. Dust motes glitter in the faint light of the lamp. When Cait settles, she takes another drink and then grins at him, her white teeth catching against the blush of her lower lip.

 

And everything in him just hurts.

 

He'd thought it would get simpler with time. Instead, it just keeps getting more and more wrenching. His teeth ache. His dick aches. His goddamn heart is caught in a vise.

 

And the flush of anger is welcome, suddenly. 

 

"What do ye even care, Caitriona? Can't ye just leave me alone for five fucking seconds?"

 

"Why are you being such a bastard?"

 

He ignores the way he can feel that the words stung her. Leaning back in the chair, he relishes the way the wheels screech against the laminate floor. He relishes the hot place where his stomach used to be. Relishes being cruel.

 

"I'm in a bad fucking mood, Cait. Just leave."

 

"You've never talked to me like this before. Not even on the worst days." She clears her throat. "Why are you so _angry_ with me? I can't help that I won -- I--"

 

" _Christ_ , it isna about that."

 

"What. Is. It. About. Then." 

 

"Ye don't get to own everything about me, Cait. Ye don't get to know everything." He stands, scrubbing his palm over his hair, his chin. He loosens his tie. "Just fucking leave it, _pleas_ e."

 

Caitriona reaches out, almost touches him. He rears back from her, unable to bear the thought of her fingers on his skin. Even for a second. He thinks it might blind him, sear him. She laughs almost harshly and shrugs.

 

"So I can't even--" her voice breaks, " _touch_ you anymore?"

 

"Not tonight, no."

 

"Is it..." she hesitates. "Is it Mackenzie? Are you guys having a fight?"

 

Sam chuckles. "God, I wish it was that. I really do, ye know. It would make my life a damn sight simpler."

 

"I don't understand."

 

"I don't love her."

 

"Of course you don't, you just started seeing her--"

 

"I'm not-- I'm not _seeing_ her."

 

"Then why is she here?"

 

"Tony's here."

 

"That's a bit different, don't you think?"

 

"Aye, it is." He pauses. "What do ye want? To wreck me completely?"

 

The air between them crackles, as if with electricity. Sam regards her for a heady moment, pinning her in place with his eyes. She stares back, just as resolutely, but he can see the way she trembles. See the slight quiver in her mouth. The nervous way she clutches the edge of the desk. And he thinks he understands, but even if he doesn't, he doesn't care any longer.

 

He can't bring himself to back away from the cliff.

 

"Take off your dress," he says, low.

 

Cait doesn't laugh. But she does swallow. He can see her throat working. Her chin lifts. "Why would I do that? You're being ridiculous."

 

"I dinna think so," he says, his accent thickening. The room feels smaller, hotter. "I think ye know very well why I'm upset. I think ye followed me because ye know."

 

"What do I _know_?" 

 

"Take off your dress and I'll show ye."

 

She stares at him for the longest time. Her eyes are hooded, dark. And then her hand comes up, and she begins to undo the zip at her side. It was tucked beneath her arm. Invisible. He stops breathing. She draws it down as slow as a whisper, dragging it until it reaches below her hip. She hops off the desk and pulls and pulls until the dress slips over her head and collapses in a heap of black silk at her bare feet.

 

Sam feels shaky. To know that he was _right,_ it almost sends him reeling. He takes her in. The black bra, lace underwear that stops just beneath her belly button. The shadows of her ribs, her waist, the hot darkness between her legs. His palm rests just over the frantic pulse of her heart and they both breathe in sharply at that first touch. 

 

It breaks the moment in two. 

 

Cait takes a step just as he does, and they crash together. Her arms rope around his neck and she's pulling at his hair, his nape, her lips hungry, her mouth hot and full and everything he dreamt, everything he imagined, everything, everything. He's almost drunk on the taste of her, the feel of her beneath his hands, like a lit match that he wants to burn and burn. His thumbs drag over her nipples, and she moans out loud, moans into his mouth.

 

They can't go fast enough. Desperate, clawing. She's struggling with the zip of his pants, his belt. He tugs down her knickers, feeling the bump of her knees as she kicks them away. He lifts her onto the desk and spreads her legs with his hands. 

 

And then he's driving inside of her and ---

 

"Ugh, _fuck,_ " he groans roughly against her neck. 

 

"Sam," she says. "Sam."

 

"Please--"

 

They're moving together, and the room fills with the sound of their slapping flesh, their gasps, the creaks of the desk as he fucks her with everything in him, slamming his hips against hers, grinding down so she can feel every inch of his cock. So he can feel every inch of her pussy. 

 

He sucks one of her nipples into his mouth, smiles briefly at the way she cries out, and then reaches down, his palm finding her clit, his hand working her just as his dick works her, as his tongue works her, as his body tries to tell her -- with all it has -- that it worships her.

 

He would kill tigers, he would climb any mountain, he would go to the depths of the earth, he would do anything, because for him, everything stopped and everything began that August, everything became clear, everything came down to this. 

 

His body, his body that can do so many things -- and his heart, that has been bruised till it feels like he has naught but a bloom of blood in his chest - oh, his foolish heart. All it wants is to tell her.

  
That he loves her, always has.

 

That for him, there can be no one else. 

 

She comes around him, making sounds in the back of her throat that he barely recognizes, and as she breaks, her eyes open and they are salt-wet, dark as oceans are dark, and he realizes with something so sharp and so star bright that it is akin to pain -- but not pain, oh God no, because the _way s_ he is looking at him -- it tells him everything, every tiger, every mountain, every fairy tale, every secret smile and fixing of hair and stolen moment --

 

she knows, she's lived every single one with him.

 

She knows.

 

_Finis_

 


End file.
